End Love

I need to go out
and make something happen.


Static and static
and static
and static.


The television screen
blank.


The page
blank.


The mind
rotting.


There is nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing
nothing


for miles and miles and miles and miles.
Miles of barren hills
miles of broken sky
miles of twisted up ambitions.


Nothing
so far as the eye can see.


No movement.
No creativity.
Nothing good.


Just the rain
rain rain rain rain
it is everywhere,
constant companion
to the unmoving earth.


The ground disgustingly
stable beneath me.


I want to fuck something up.


I want to fuck something up
beyond recognition.


Change change change.
Grant me, bless me, christen me
with change.
Beautiful change.


A new view and new perception
I can't find for myself
because I am weak.


I am not an artist
because I can't find it.


It's not here.
Everywhere but here.


All the times
except now.


My shadow 
is yawning in feigned sleepiness,
constant tired
or 
just 
useless and uninventive?


I can't tell because 
there is nothing.


I want to go out
drive around
and do something.


Something
beautiful and new.
Something inspiring.


With my hands empty I am useless
and weakened. 


I need a constant project.
Some constancy of my mind I understand.


But there is only
a falsified state of
void.
Philosophical gap in my reality.


A crack in the earth
of nothing.


There is a whirring of
empty space in my head.